


Modern Family

by Timballisto



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Based on the first book mostly, Gen, HomeDepotManager!Crane, HomophobicFamily!Daja, PTSD!Sandry, PlantGeneticist!Rosethorn, StrugglingwithMentalIllness!Tris, This is littered with gems like, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timballisto/pseuds/Timballisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Briar, Daja, Tris, and Sandry all had... unique experiences that lead them to 12 Discipline Ct, Summersea, MA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Briar didn't know how he thought he'd get away with it.

And that was his problem, wasn't it? Thinking? Not thinking had gotten him kicked around the foster system and onto the streets where he'd been sucked into the gang wars of LA. Not thinking had prompted him to throw a cherry bomb at a cop car, to jack a jewelry store with a few of his buddies, and get thrown in juvie at the ripe age of 14.

Not thinking is what was forcing him to run down the street like a madman, a small tree tucked under his arm... with three clerks and an angry manager on his heels.

"Stop, thief!" one of the fatter clerks shouted, his voice wheezy and labored. "Stop him!" the manager added, distinguished by the bright orange vest. Briar merely tugged his green hoodie higher to hide his face from the various passerby as he dashed down the sidewalk, shoving the people he couldn't move around out of his way.

Briar counted himself lucky that Summersea was such a small, rural, Massachusetts community that it could only support a few overweight mall cops and a single sheriff- nothing like the riot police or the dispatch cops that had wrestled him to the ground at his second arrest. He scoffed, flipping the bird at group that still dogged his heels, his Chucks pounding the ground as he dashed into the gated community of Winding Circle. He cringed slightly at he racket, the noise echoing off of the expansive gardens in front of the cottages, disturbing the idyllic peace that he found he enjoyed after all of his time in the city; usually the only noise that really penetrated the sleepy little suburb was the tall clock tower that rose out of the community center that had been nicknamed the Hub by the residents.

He chanced a look back, his eyes widening at the gap that had closed between them. They were only twenty feet behind now, and gaining. Gulping, Briar put on another burst of speed, turning off of Temple Road and onto Discipline Court, charging for the small cottage at the far end of the cul-de-sac.

"Briar?"

Briar's eyes widened; Sandry, one of the other fosters that lived in the house, stood by the gate, partially blocking his way in.

"Move!" He yelled, barely waiting for Sandry to yelp and jump out of the way before running through, into the relative safety of Discipline Cottage. He said relative, because he really wasn't sure if his foster parents would take up for him this time. Especially-

"Rosethorn!" the manager called, coming to a stop before the picketed fence. His face was bright red and his voice breathy. "Where is she? I know she put you up to this-"

"You'll what?" Sandry demanded, her eyes hard as she stepped before the gate, shutting it firmly with a loud click. "This is private property- a private community, thank you-"

"Show some respect, girl!" the manager barked. "Children, these days, thinking they can talk back to their elders and stealing-"

"Oh shut up, Crane." Brair felt a shiver go down his spine as he felt the warm hand of Rosethorn come down hard on his shoulder. "You're barely forty- you can't be going around sniping at people for being younger than you."

"Hmph." The man named Crane sniffed, looking down his long nose at the group. "I don't snipe at young people, I abhor hooligans. Troublemakers. Thieves."

"Briar?" Briar heard the soft voice of his other foster parent, Lark.

He groaned, already feeling the tickling of guilt in his chest at her disappointed voice. "I just took a little tree." He muttered, carefully extracting the brittle branches from his sweatshirt where they had clung to the fabric. "It was in the Home Depot garden center. It was dying!" Briar exclaimed, looking up at Rosethorn for support.

"That doesn't give you the right to take it!" Crane frothed. "You're very lucky I didn't call the police young man-"

"Crane, what on earth was a shakkan doing in a Home Depot?" Rosethorn barked, snatching the tree away from Briar's slackened fingers, carefully inspecting the little plant. The small pine needles were turning brown, slowly degrading from a healthy green to a dull brown.

"Shakkan?" Sandry asked, curious.

"A rather finicky type of bonsai that's become quite popular, if it were any of your business." Crane answered curtly. "Now, if you'll just give me back my-"

"Hell no!" Briar cut in, ignoring Lark's soft reproof for his language. "They're killing it, Rosethorn!" he pleaded, ignoring the astonished looks of his housemates; Sandry by the gate and Daja and Tris in the doorway to the rest of the house. They were a little too used to his mean glare and foul-mouth. It sounded like he actually cared about this, for once.

Not that he cared. He just, you know. Wanted to steal something.

Rosethorn sighed, sharing a long look with Lark before turning back to Crane. "I'll give you some of my tomato seeds."

Crane sniffed. "It's not he 16th century Rosethorn. I can grow tomatoes, buy them at the local market; greenhouses aren't exactly that special."

"You better appreciate this, boy." Rosethorn muttered to Briar under her breath. "I mean," she said, louder. "that you can have some of my unique tomato seeds. The ones I bred to be-"

"High-yielding and resistant to disease?" Crane's voice had a note of excitement in it, though he kept his face passive. "You're serious? You'll let me have a look at the project you nearly were awarded the Nobel prize for?"

Rosethorn snorted, waving her hand dismissively. "Whatever. Do we have a deal?"

Crane drew himself to his full height before nodding magnanimously. "We have an accord."

With that, he gathered the edges of his orange vest as if it was a voluminous robe and swept away, his cronies behind him.

"Drama Queen." Briar heard Rosethorn mutter beneath her breath, and he grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

There was something to be said about a girl who'd been through fourteen different foster homes in four years, not even including the shuffling her own family had done before she'd entered the system. 

Trisana Chandler scowled into her textbook as her history teacher droned on about the Renaissance, hunching her shoulders against the snickers and snide remarks of the rest of her peers. Despite it's shining reputation as a boarding school of culture, Tris had found that _Cercle Brisé_ was no better than any public or private school she'd ever attended. The students were nice enough... until the rumors about her started to spread. Her personal favorite was that she practice witchcraft and summoned demons in her spare time.

Still, it was better than the truth, she thought miserably. An unwanted child, an unlovable child. A bookworm, awkward and stiff. A psychological mess with plenty of abandonment issues. Rumored to be schizophrenic, on medication for hearing voices... Tris pushed those thoughts away as thoroughly as she was able. She couldn't afford to break down, not after she'd _just_ transferred-

She pushed her glasses higher on her nose, adding an extra twist to her scowl as a giggling cheerleader and her posse of drooling football players walked by. One 'accidentally' knocked her books to the ground, sending her homework and papers flying everywhere, to be tread on gleefully by the people passing through the hall. Ignoring the laughter of her classmates, Tris sagged back against a slate grey locker, waiting for the hallway to empty before she attempted to retrieve anything. Knowing them, they'd shove her over and make her late anyway; why not be late on her own terms, for once?

"Trisana Chandler?"

Tris blinked, looking up from her ripped Calculus homework at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. "Yeah?"

A tall, pale man stood in the middle of the hallway, decked out in what looked like an extremely expensive Armani suit. His hair and beard were impeccable and he looked like he wouldn't be out of place in one of her father's boardrooms. He also didn't have a visitors pass.

"Stay back." Tris warned, narrowing her eyes. "I have mace."

The man chuckled, raising his hands. "Heavens, girl." he had a distinct Oxford accent. "I'm not here to abduct you- well, abduct you illegally." He fished around in his pocket before producing a card, which he handed to a still suspicious Tris.

"Mr. Niklaren Goldeye of Goldeye Law Firm." Tris read aloud. "My father's lawyer." She snorted, dropping the card on the floor dismissively. "I don't know why you're here. I've already been written out of the will."

Despite her apathetic facade, Tris' hands trembled. Her medication made things seem muted and far away, but it couldn't stop the tide of anxiety from pushing up into her throat. This was it, they were finally going to throw her into a psych ward and throw away the key-

"Well, not exactly." Mr. Goldeye smiled. "Your father didn't quite think through his contract with us- he paid for us to represent his family for life. A foolish display of wealth, in my opinion, because it allowed my firm to become your social lawyers, in a way."

"Meaning..." Tris lead on, not quite liking where this was leading. The trill of fear in her gut pulsed.

"Pack your bags, Ms. Chandler, we are going on, as they say, a road trip."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: the effect of medication for schizophrenia is based entirely on my cousin's experience. this is not meant to represent the mentally ill population in any way except for what my cousin has told me of his own experiences


	3. Chapter 3

_She was in the dark. She didn't know what to do because she was in the dark oh god-_

_The blackness rose up like black ooze, sliding like a second skin over her ankles and up her calves. It made her skin prickle with fear and chill before it climbed upwards. Over her thighs, over her stomach... up her ribs until it cradled her neck. It slid slowly, almost imperceptible over her lips, twisting around her nose to slowly choke her air off. Then she'd suffocate, scrabbling at her covered face, scratching deep and drawing blood. Death by fear._

_It climbed over her eyes and... she screamed._

"...it's definitely PTSD." a soft voice murmured. Sandry's small nose twitched as it acclimated itself to harsh chemical smell of industrial cleaner and cheap air freshner. A hospital. She blinked, opening blue eyes. Or, rather, the only clinic in the small town of Summersea, the biggest town in Emelan County, Massachusetts. "As well as a healthy dose of depression, I'd say."

Sandry turned to look from her bed towards the voices, meeting the warm eyes of her uncle and doctor as she did so. "Uncle." she said, as warmly as she could manage. She tried to smile, only to gasp a little at the lance of pain through her face. Her skin stung where the muscles of her face pulled; when she touched her face, her fingers came away with a spot of blood.

"Sandraline." he smiled, leaving the doctor in a stride, coming over to sit at her bedside. "How are you feeling?"

"What happened?" she asked, frowning. She couldn't quite remember...

"The power went off, my dear." her uncle explained softly. "You had an... episode."

Sandry felt her cheeks color with shame. Oh, she remembered now. The stinging on her face must be from scratches; she'd thought that was a dream.

"Why didn't you tell me?" her uncle asked softly, and Sandry shook her head. But she knew exactly why.

No one wants to tell their uncle that they dream of watching their parents executed. 

The Torens had expected, as always, to pay their way through. Daddy had been a CEO worth billions, after all. There hadn't been a time yet when money hadn't gotten her families way, no time when the seas hadn't parted for Mattin or Amiliane Toren. Except of course, when they had gotten caught up in the genocide that ensued when the country broke into violence.

Sandry closed her eyes briefly. Two shots to the back of the head, execution style. There hadn't even been any bodies to bring home, her parents already long buried in mass graves. She remembered the harsh laughs of soldiers kicking down the doors of the hotel and dragging her parents into the hallway in their nightclothes.

Sandry had screamed at the sound of gunfire, and gagged at the bloody smears her parents made on the wallpaper. She was alive only because the hotel maid had dragged her away and hid her in the basement. In the dark.

For three months.

"It's nothing." she said, opening her eyes finally. "Really, just a... flashback. That's all."

"Well..." Uncle frowned, staring down at the pale face of his niece. "I doubt all this sitting indoors is helping, either. After I sign for your prescription, I'm sending you to Discipline."

"I'm... in trouble?" Sandry asked, her voice thin and fragile. She cleared her throat, angry at herself for the emotional crack in her voice.

"No, Sandraline." Uncle said. "Rather the opposite, I think. I'm acquainted with the place vaguely, but think of it as more of a vacation getaway. This place," he gestured to the clinic. "and the Citadel are no places for lonely girls."

Sandry rolled her eyes, smiling slightly. "It's the town hall, Uncle, not a castle."

"I'd be a king instead of a mayor, wouldn't I? I'm rather partial to Duke, myself." he looked thoughtful. "Duke Vedris IV... I like the sound of that."

Sandry rolled her eyes, feeling her spirits lift a little, even as her Uncle filled out the forms for enough anti-depressants to make her buoyant for days.

Perhaps Discipline wouldn't be so bad.


	4. Chapter 4

Daja had lived in New Orleans for her entire life.

She looked out the window of the Mr. Goldeneye’s care with a sort of sad resignation, her eyes watering slightly as they turned onto the highway and accelerated out of her old life.

She’d gone to elementary school, middle school, and half of high school in the same area. She knew every single one of the kids on her block, and they’d all known her. 

Well. They thought they’d known her.

It was the talk of the neighborhood, how that Kisubo girl (you know the one, who’s parents died in Katrina?) was found with her hands up the skirt of another girl.

It’d been the last straw for her relatives. They’d been willing to take her in when her parents drowned, as long as she helped out with the family fishing business. But a spare pair of hands wasn’t worth harboring a dyke.

Daja closed her eyes and pressed her head against the glass of the window. The only reason she wasn’t out on the street was because she wasn’t 18- she had years yet.

“Are you going to try and “cure” me?” she asked suddenly, her voice filling the empty silence of the car.

“Of course not.” The man said, his voice a little clipped. “There’s nothing to cure.”

“You called it a rehabilitation center.” Daja pointed out.

“Yes, I did. And it is. It’s not my fault if your guardians took that to mean it was a “pray away the gay camp”, as I believe they’re called.” Niklaren Goldeye sniffed. “Though, to be fair, with a name like Discipline it’s easy to misinterpret.”

“You’re taking me to a rehabilitation center called Discipline…” Daja said slowly. “And you don’t expect me to think it’s for gay kids?”

“Like I said, I let your former guardians believe what they wanted to.” Goldeye said. He peered at her in the rearview mirror. “I promise you, if this place is a rehabilitation center, it’s only one for children in need of a safe place.”

Daja held his eyes for a while, her gaze steady. Evidently, she was pleased with what she saw because she blinked and looked back out the window again.

“Alright.” she said. “Take me to Discipline.”


End file.
